Vallon spun towards the Vikings. ‘Wulfstan, stop them. Use force if necessary.’
Wulfstan’s gaze latched onto his, and Vallon knew what would happen next and could do nothing to prevent it. Wulfstan ran towards his boat. ‘Follow me, lads. There’s our booty getting away.’
The Vikings sprinted to the riverbank and shoved the boat out. Everything unravelled. Drogo grabbed Caitlin and dragged her after the Vikings. ‘Wait for me!’
The Vikings hesitated. Drogo reached the river and plunged in, towing Caitlin behind him. She broke free and Drogo lunged for her. He managed to seize one arm. With the other she whacked him across the face, knocking him backwards. She thrashed back to shore and Vallon caught her and held her while he aimed his sword at Drogo.
‘Go with the Vikings.’
Drogo turned, but it was too late. The Vikings were rowing after the galley like maniacs, and from the way the Russians redoubled their own efforts, it was clear they knew what fate awaited them if the pirates caught up. Vallon watched the Vikings overhaul the galley and storm aboard, hacking aside the feeble opposition. One of the conscripts toppled into the river and the Viking warhorn blew.
Wulfstan ran to the stern and cupped his hands to his mouth.
Vallon strained to hear him. ‘What’s that?’
Wayland stood beside him, his bow trained on Drogo. ‘He says it’s nothing personal.’
Vallon watched the galley draw away downriver. Drogo watched it, too, and then shook his head and began trudging to shore.
Wayland glanced at Vallon, waiting for the command to shoot. But right now, Drogo was the least of their worries. Without a sea-going ship, they were done for even if they reached the estuary.
Drogo stopped and managed a sick grin. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Vallon. You’d have done the same.’
‘Kill him,’ Caitlin whispered.
Vallon reached for Wayland’s bow and moved it aside. ‘I’ve seen enough death for one day. Now it’s time to look out for the living.’
Richard was breathing as if he’d run a mile, each intake accompanied by a mew of pain. He was still propped against the oak. In any other position, he couldn’t breathe at all and his heart went into alarming palpitations.
Hero stroked his face. ‘Can you hear me?’
Richard opened glazed eyes. ‘I feel like I’m drowning. And it hurts. God, it hurts.’
‘The arrowhead’s behind your ribs. Just here. Will you let me remove it?’
‘Will it make any difference?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ll give me some of your drowsy potion.’
‘Enough to dull the pain. Your heart is stressed and your lung is full of blood. If I send you to sleep, you might not wake up.’
Richard whimpered.
‘To reach the arrowhead I’ll have to make a cut about an inch deep.’
Richard’s face contorted. ‘Do what you have to. It can’t hurt any worse.’
Hero laid out his instruments. Caitlin heated water on a fire. When everything was ready, Hero gave Richard a spoonful of the drowsy mixture. He coughed it up together with a cupful of blood. Drogo stood watching in a baleful trance. ‘Lend a hand.’
Hero selected a scalpel and knelt at Richard’s side. Vallon gripped Richard’s shoulders. Syth lifted his left arm as if it were a broken wing. Drogo held his brother’s legs.
Hero didn’t know in which plane the arrowhead was lying. His hand trembled as he laid the blade against the skin. He had to be decisive. His hand steadied. He cut down hard and made an oblique incision centred on the middle of the bruise. He felt the blade nick bone. Blood sprang. Richard’s body bucked.
Hero held out a hand. ‘Water.’
Caitlin passed him a cloth soaked in cold river water. He applied it repeatedly, but the blood kept welling.
‘Another.’
At last the bleeding almost stopped. Hero pulled apart the lips of the incision, sponged it and saw the gleam of a rib before blood covered it again. He did this several times and then looked up.
‘There’s a fracture in the rib. The arrowhead must be directly behind it.’
‘Can you see the head?’
‘No. I’ll have to probe for it.’
He inserted the tip of the scalpel between the ribs to the left of the fracture and drew the blade to the right. He hadn’t cut deep enough and he had to make a second attempt. Blood covered his hands. This time he felt resistance.
‘I think I’ve found it.’
He made another probe, this time from right to left until the blade stopped. He felt a leap of hope.
‘The head’s jammed between the ribs.’
‘How will you reach it?’
‘I’ll have to prise the ribs apart.’
Vallon winced. ‘The pain will be unbearable. Let me try working it through from the other end.’
‘Be careful. The shaft is in the lung. It will snap if you push too hard.’
Vallon gripped the arrow close to the entry wound and pushed, gently at first, then with increasing force. Richard cried out like a beast under torture.
‘It’s not moving.’
Hero washed away the blood. ‘Try twisting slightly.’
Richard uttered another pitiful cry.
‘I think it’s coming,’ said Hero. ‘Keep twisting. The edges of the arrowhead are probably bent over.’
Vallon sat back. ‘Damn!’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘The shaft’s come loose of the head. I can turn it freely.’
‘Don’t move it any more,’ said Hero. He drenched the incision and saw a tongue of iron protruding between the ribs. ‘Part of it’s through. Enough to get purchase on. I’ll have to make another cut.’
He made the second incision parallel to the ribs. He wiped sweat from his eyes and selected a pair of forceps. He cleaned the cuts again, clamped the hooks on the point and pulled. The pincers slipped off. He tried half a dozen times but couldn’t get a proper grip. With each tug, Richard screamed.
‘I can’t get a firm purchase.’
Vallon held out his hand. ‘Let me try.’
Hero held apart the wound to reveal the iron point. He sluiced blood away to let Vallon align the forceps.
‘I’ve got it,’ said Vallon. His jaw trembled with effort. He pulled and Richard shrieked. He pulled so hard that he tumbled backwards when the forceps slipped. ‘I felt it shift.’
When Hero inspected the wound, half the arrowhead was clear of the ribs.
‘Oh God!’ Richard cried. ‘Let me die!’
Hero mopped Richard’s brow. ‘It’s nearly out. One more effort.’
Vallon clamped the forceps again and this time he tore the arrowhead out, ripping through muscle and blood vessels. Arterial blood spurted and it seemed like Richard’s life essence would drain completely before the cold-water dressings staunched the flow. He’d fallen unconscious and his heart fluttered like a bird’s. Vallon withdrew the shaft from his back and another spout of blood gushed and ebbed. Hero turned the buckled arrowhead in his hands.
‘You’re a braver man than me,’ Vallon said. ‘And so is Richard.’
*
They were back on the river when Richard recovered consciousness. He breathed a little easier and could drink water one sip at a time. They camped that night on another island and took it in turns to support him in the position that caused him the least severe pain. In the morning the Cumans had gone. Hero changed the dressing on Richard’s wound. He’d left it open so that it could drain. In the dull light, Richard had the pallor of a corpse two days dead, his dark eyes sunk in his skull.
They drifted through empty steppe. The next day Richard was able to take a cup of broth. The surgical wound hurt him less than the internal pain. At each breath, it felt like a stitch was being pulled tight inside his lung. Cupping the wound afforded some relief, allowing him snatches of sleep. After three days Hero dared to hope of recovery. Morning, evening and night he changed the
dressing. There was some suppuration, but that was to be expected, and the lips of the wound were beginning to granulate.
Hero’s fragile hopes were crushed on the fourth day, when the cupping treatment produced a copious effusion of foul-smelling pus. By evening Richard had a high fever and was delirious. The next morning gas was bubbling from the wound, enveloping the boat in stinking purulence.
On the sixth day they reached the mouth of the Dnieper and landed on the island of St Aitherios, more than a mile from either shore. It was about half a mile long, flat and featureless except for a few grave-barrows. The travellers knew it was deserted even before they went ashore and found the remains of recent campfires and a freshly dug grave. No trees grew on the island and they propped Richard against a Viking runestone erected to commemorate another traveller who’d perished on the Road to the Greeks. They ate supper in a morbid silence while Hero sat with Richard, waiting for him to die.
In the middle watch Richard recovered consciousness. ‘Hero?’
‘I’m right here.’
‘It doesn’t hurt any more.’
‘That’s a good sign.’
‘I won’t live to see tomorrow. Don’t weep. Remember the happy times we’ve shared. Think of what I would have missed if I’d stayed at home. I’ve lived a lifetime in the last eight months. I’ve seen so much, learned so much and learned how much more there is to know. I’m still a fool, but I’m a fool who can ask questions that ten wise men can’t answer.’
In the starlight his eyes were dark pools of shadow.
‘I wish I’d reached the sea.’
Hero held him. ‘We have reached it. Look at the clouds. See how the light from the sea reflects against them.’
‘I don’t want to be buried here. It’s full of ghosts. They talk to me. I don’t want to be with them. Cast my body into the river.’
Those were Richard’s last words. His breathing grew increasingly feeble. Drogo came over and laid a hand on Hero’s shoulder.
‘I want to speak to him.’
‘He can’t hear you.’
‘It’s what I have to say that matters.’
Hero went to the shore and squeezed his skull between his hands. Waves sighed on the bar. He could hear Drogo murmuring, his monologue broken by many pauses, as though he had to dredge the words from deep inside. At last he stopped. Hero stood and watched him approach.
‘He’s gone.’
‘I should have been there when his soul departed.’
‘I wanted to make peace with him.’ Drogo’s mouth quivered. ‘He was a better man than I gave him credit for, but when you grow up in a family like mine … ’ He swung round, his body shaking.
‘It’s not too late to make your peace with Vallon.’
Drogo whirled. ‘Richard never did me any harm. But Vallon … ’ Drogo shot out a hand. ‘That man has taken everything I have.’
In the morning they wrapped Richard in a shroud and laid him in the skiff and consigned him to the sea. A cold wind raised whitecaps and a flock of pelicans stood on the shore facing a window of light in the grey sky. After the others had left, Hero remained, watching the boat drifting away.
He was deep in mournful reverie when Wayland said his name. He turned, smiling. ‘I was miles away. Has Vallon called a council? Am I holding things up?’
‘It’s Syth. She’s sick.’
‘Oh, no! Why didn’t you say?’
‘She didn’t want to bother you. She only told me this morning. She’s been sick for three days.’
‘In what way sick?’
‘Throwing up. Three of the falcons are showing signs of sickness, too.’
‘I’ll tend to her straight away.’
Syth watched him with a very guarded expression when he approached. She didn’t look her usual bright self. There were bruises under her eyes and her hair was brittle and lifeless. He took her pulse, listened to her breathing, felt her brow. Nothing untoward there.
‘Describe your symptoms.’
She made a gargoyle face and uttered a retching sound.
‘Vomiting?’ said Hero. ‘After eating?’
‘At the thought of eating. Sometimes a smell makes me throw up.’
‘You don’t have a fever. Perhaps it’s something you ate.’
Caitlin walked over. ‘What’s wrong with the maid?’
‘She’s ill. Vomiting.’
Caitlin put her arms around Syth. ‘What time of day does the sickness come?’
‘It’s worst in the morning.’
Caitlin looked up at the men. ‘Leave us alone.’
Hero watched Wayland pacing and rubbing his mouth. ‘She’ll be fine. All she needs is rest.’
‘Where’s Syth going to find rest? Ahead of us is the Black Sea and behind us there are two hundred miles of steppe infested by Cumans.’
‘Blockheads.’
Hero turned. Caitlin stood with her hands on her hips, smiling.
‘I can understand why Wayland didn’t recognise Syth’s condition, but as for you …’
Hero reddened. ‘I admit my medical knowledge isn’t perfect.’
‘You don’t have to be a physician to know what’s troubling Syth. The girl isn’t ill. She’s pregnant.’
Vallon held counsel over their midday meal. ‘I didn’t want to discuss our predicament while Richard was alive. We’re in a mess. The question is, how do we get out of it?’
‘We have to follow the galley,’ said Drogo. ‘Head west, keeping to the coast. The Russians don’t sail directly to Constantinople. They stop at trading posts along the way.’
‘Is that your advice?’ Vallon asked Hero.
‘I’m not sure. The nearest haven is at the mouth of the Danube. It might take a week to reach it and we’d have to land each night. The nomads occupy the coast and sooner or later we’ll run into them. It might be safer to go east. Igor told me there’s a Greek colony on the Krym peninsula.’
‘How far?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How much food do we have?’
‘Enough for four or five days.’
‘Wayland? Any thoughts?’
The falconer looked at Syth before answering. ‘Have we given up our plan to reach Anatolia?’
‘Forget Anatolia. Our survival is the only thing that matters.’
Wayland looked at Syth again. ‘I don’t know what direction to take.’
Vallon stroked his lips.
‘East or West,’ said Drogo. ‘Which is it to be?’
‘Neither.’ Vallon pointed out to sea, at the boat carrying Richard’s corpse. ‘We’ll follow the course set by your brother.’
‘What! We won’t cross the sea in our little boat.’
‘The Greeks have colonies throughout the Black Sea. That means maritime traffic. We’ll sail south until we reach a shipping lane and wait for a vessel to pick us up.’ Vallon looked around. ‘Anyone got a better idea?’ He slapped his knees. ‘That’s settled then.’
XLV
On the eve of departure, the three sick falcons had taken a turn for the worse. Two of them wouldn’t eat. The other took a small crop and cast up its meal undigested, standing flatfooted with its plumage loose and its eyes narrowed to ovals. When Wayland checked in the morning, the falcons lay stiff in their cages with their feet clenched and lice scurrying on their feathers.
They left under a cold and overcast sky. Where the colour of the water changed from muddy yellow to grey they came upon Richard’s funeral boat. Four vultures perched on the gunwales and gulls and kites hovered above the shrouded corpse. The travellers crossed themselves and raised the sail and headed into the open sea.
By nightfall they were out of sight of land and hadn’t seen a single ship. In the dark the wind strengthened and waves broke over the boat, making it necessary to bail. A sleepless night gave way to another cold grey day. They sailed on, not sure what course they were following. Towards evening Wayland thought he saw a sail miles to starboard. No one else could se
e it and soon darkness fell.
Morning on the third day broke clear and sunny, the sea still choppy, still empty. The wind was carrying them west and they looked at each other with bloodshot eyes, aware that they were too far from land to turn back.
Before noon Wayland spotted a sail approaching from the east. They mended their course to intercept it. Hero recognised the ship as a Venetian merchantman. It passed close enough for the frantically waving company to see its crew pointing at them. It sailed on without altering direction, carrying the curses of the castaways.
Not long after it sank from sight another ship appeared, also westward bound. This vessel was much larger, running under two lateen sales.
‘It’s a dromon,’ said Hero. ‘A Byzantine war galley. Look at the two banks of oar ports. She must be carrying three hundred men.’
Vallon studied it. ‘Lower the sail. Don’t signal.’
Drogo sprang from his seat. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘Calm yourself. There’s only one reason why they’d pick us up. I’ve no wish to work out my days as a galley slave.’
They watched the galley glide past. ‘Don’t be downhearted,’ said Vallon. ‘We’ve seen two ships already. We’re in the right place.’
No more ships appeared that day or the next morning. In the afternoon Wayland opened the cages to feed the two surviving falcons. The white haggard still had a healthy appetite and alert eyes. The eyas tiercel crouched in the corner of its cage. When Wayland placed it on his fist, it stood unsteadily and paid no attention to the food. He put it back.
He didn’t tell the company about its imminent death. They sat slumped in their own private miseries, their hair stiff with brine, faces masked by salt, crusts of dried vomit at the corners of their mouths.
The sun was dipping into the sea when Wayland’s last sweep of the horizons registered another sail. A tiny silhouette on the reddening sky. Everyone watched it in silence, not daring to put hopes into words. It grew larger.
‘Heading our way,’ said Wayland.
‘East,’ said Drogo. ‘The wrong direction.’
‘There isn’t a wrong direction,’ Vallon said.
The ship was hugging the wind, making slow progress. The evening star was shining when its hull cleared the horizon.
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